


A friendly hand

by CamilleDuDemon



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aiden is a sweetheart, Canon-Typical Violence, Concussions, Cuddles, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hunt Gone Wrong, Hurt Lambert, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Medicinal Drug Use, Whump, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:54:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26033017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CamilleDuDemon/pseuds/CamilleDuDemon
Summary: Half of his face was covered in blood from the still oozing cut splitting his eyebrow in two. The other half was blotted with caked grime and nekker guts. He could feel another gash on the back of his head, and it hurt like hell."Shit", he hissed, probing the wound gingerly with his fingers. He was starting to feel dizzy and nauseous.A concussion, undoubtedly. And Aiden was already waiting for him in a village that would have taken him half a day on horseback to reach.Half a day...on a breakneck speed, maybe, he found himself thinking, his face twisted in a grimace. Thinking hurt. It made him feel like the whole right side of his brain was on fire.
Relationships: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 92





	A friendly hand

Stepping out of a claustrophobic cave after the gods knew how many hours of cursing and walking around in circles with stars dancing in his peripheral vision felt relieving for Lambert, although the air outside smelled stale, musky and humid just like it did inside the bloody tunnels.

At least the woods didn’t reek of nekker shit -- a small consolation though.

Oh, he loathed Velen so much. It had been Aiden’s idea to go there in the first place; with the war still raging, the region could provide plenty of work for a witcher. Necrophages, small ogroids just like nekkers, wraiths of any kind -- easy jobs, yet totally unprofitable. Poverty had always been some sort of an endemic plague for Velen, even before Nilfgaard had gone bonkers and decided it was time to start a consuming war against the Northern Realms. Not that Lambert cared about the bitchings of kings, by the way. Sticking his nose in the wrong arses was Geralt’s occupation, not his. 

Sighing loudly, he rinsed the many scratches on his hands with fresh, running water from the stream. He couldn’t even recall how he got those. Half of his face was covered in blood from the still oozing cut splitting his eyebrow in two. The other half was blotted with caked grime and nekker guts. He could feel another gash on the back of his head, and it hurt like hell.

"Shit", he hissed, probing the wound gingerly with his fingers. He was starting to feel dizzy and nauseous.

A concussion, undoubtedly. And Aiden was already waiting for him in a village that would have taken him half a day on horseback to reach.

Half a day... _ on a breakneck speed, maybe _ , he found himself thinking, his face twisted in a grimace. Thinking hurt. It made him feel like the whole right side of his brain was on fire.

Gods above, how he hated riding. Especially in places like Velen, where marshes and swamps were even more numerous than all the goddamn trees in the whole Temeria.

He washed his face as best as he could, carefully scrubbing away all the disgusting shit that had ended up sticking to his sweat-slick skin, trying not to vomit while crouching down. He didn't, though he thought he was about to throw up a couple of times.

Once he was done - which was a blatant lie, because his hair still smelled disgustingly and the gash on his eyebrow hadn’t stopped bleeding yet - he reached the small clearing where his horse, tied to a solid branch so the fucker wouldn’t run away, was peacefully grazing some grass in the company of some crows.

Lambert hoped the birds didn’t mean that a leshen was nearby, he wouldn’t have stood a chance against one in his state. Luckily enough, the birds were just birds, they didn’t mean shit, and when he hissed at them they dispersed, cawing in protest.

His horse - a young, hot-blooded stallion he had received as a payment for getting rid of a particularly aggressive wraith in Kovir - cast a disappointed glance towards him. Lambert hissed at him too, and the horse whinnied.

Getting on the horse, however, proved itself to be a very difficult task, especially since the concussion was causing Lambert some troubles with his vision. First of all, his pupils were really sluggish, slow to react, meaning that any change in light could stun him for a while. Then, the fucking white dots had yet to stop dancing in front of his eyes.

Huffing and cursing, he managed to mount after having fallen on his arse twice. Good thing that no one could have witnessed that, save for some hare and a couple of wild bushes speckled with poisonous berries.

As soon as he had reached the same hill he had climbed while getting to the cave, Lambert took a look at the sky, moaning when the sun blinded him with its unbearably bright light. Judging by the position of the sun, it was already late afternoon. No chance for him to get to the village before sundown. He groaned. His head was tormenting him. He shoved his hand inside one of his saddlebags and rummaged thoroughly until he found what he was looking for: a small leather pouch filled with various vials, many of which were already empty. Another frustrated groan escaped his lips. No healing potions in sight. Damn, when did his luck become so rotten? Still, he chugged down something to help with the pain, otherwise - he was sure - he would have fallen from his horse as soon as it would have started galloping.

When the elixir kicked in, the witcher spurred his horse south, hoping for the best. He even considered praying but, fuck, he wasn’t so desperate yet, was he?

***

The throbbing pain pounding against his skull was too much to take. Lambert dismounted, leaving the empty road, and threw up against a tree. Twice. His temples were feeling as if someone had set his head afire, then hit him repeatedly with a log.

It took him a tremendous effort to find another elixir to wolf down -- anything, really, just to dull the pain.

Focusing was becoming increasingly hard, yet he was able to manage enough to spot a nice clearing where to set camp. He was just about to light a small fire for the night when a ragtag band of a dozen fuckers emerged from the bushes, armed to the teeth with rusty swords, blackjacks, heavy maces and axes. Lambert groaned: he had just sat his arse on the ground, finally, and some asshole was already bothering him.

Diserters. Velen was swarming with diserters, and deserters were scum of the worst kind. Lambert tried to ignore them at first; he wasn’t sure he could have bested all of them while feeling so dizzy and weak. Yet, he wouldn’t have given up without a good fight, of that he was sure as hell.

“What a nice horse you’ve got here, witchman! A nice horse indeed!”, a man with blackened teeth said, approaching his stallion with a wolfish smirk on his face.

Witchman. Why did everyone start calling witchers ‘witchmen’? When? He hated the word. He hated the fuckers who were bothering him just to put up a fight. How could they even think he would have given up his precious stallion like that? A jolt of white-hot pain ran through his skull just as he was about to unsheathe his sword and launch himself towards the prick who was studying his horse up close. Maybe -- maybe fighting wasn't the absolute best thing to do with a concussion and several other small bruises impairing his movements, but Lambert was Lambert and there was no way to drag him away from a fight once everything had been set in motion.

"Thank you", he sneered, giving the deserter a humorless grin. He tried his best to stand on his feet without them noticing how bad his general situation was, tried to look steady, to look solid, to look like someone they wouldn't have had the balls to mess with. Sadly, they looked like people who had more balls than brains; smart people would have known better than to rob a witcher.

Searing pain. Again. Lambert winced. "Not selling it, though. Seems like you have to stick with your nag, mate". He waved his hand towards an ugly, malnourished grey horse. The deserter smiled, and his smile was even uglier than his horse.

"Don't wanna buy it, witchman. Just wanna -- borrow it, if you know what I mean."

The witcher rolled his eyes. Someone was beating his head with a sledgehammer from the inside now, and the pain made his teeth rattle. He took a mental note:  _ eyerolling with a concussion is a no-no. _

"See, mate, I don't want to give my horse away. He's a stallion, I'm sure you've noticed that. I don't think he'll be a fitting mount for someone like you, you know? Old saying goes  _ motherfuckers shouldn't have good horses,  _ and I happen to be deeply devoted to popular wisdom."

The ugly, black smile widened.

"Witchmen shouldn't either, then."

Lambert could distinctly hear the metallic sound of a sword being unsheathed. He huffed in annoyance as he easily rolled away from a blow aiming for his side. Shit, his head was about to explode. The clashing of the blades made the pain even worse, if possible. 

He took down a couple of men with nasty, brute cuts. It wasn't the right time to argue about style, anyway. He hoped,  _ he really hoped,  _ that his little show could discourage the assholes from taking further action, but it didn't. They were more, more stupid than he had thought.

He barely managed to strike down a third man, because pirouetting and slashing didn't do any good to his already battered body, and he had to focus just to keep his balance without falling face first in the grass after having almost cut the guy in a half. Frenzy ensued; the ragged, rusty blade of an axe slashed through his doublet, dark ribbons of blood running down his forearm to his hand, making it difficult for him to hold onto the hilt of his sword, now slick with blood. 

Usually, he would have trusted his guts, going for an honest  _ throw a bomb and run _ , but his horse was in the middle of the skirmish and he wasn't really in the mood for horse steak, not when the horse to be cooked was his own.

Careful not to burn his stallion alive, Lambert cast a powerful Igni, but magic - for how rough and rudimental signs were - was draining, and soon enough he found himself staring groggily at the starry sky, not knowing when and how his legs had given up on him.

Every sound came muffled to his ears, as if someone was keeping his head underwater, waiting for the bubbles to stop rising from his nose. He could breath, though. There was no water in sight.

Trying to prop himself up on his elbows, he found his body limp, unresponsive, his arms so heavy he couldn't lift them and his pupils wide, unable to contract.

Everything hurt. Hell, he was even hyper aware of the gash on his forearm, of how much it was bleeding. Slowly but steadily. One drop at a time. It tickled. He chuckled under his breath, then rolled his head on the side to vomit again.

He wondered if he was dying. Most probably yes, he was. He thought about Aiden -- tried to, actually. Then, everything went black.

***

He didn't know how much time he had spent drifting in and out of consciousness, blabbering nonsense and moaning in pain. He only knew that someone was with him all along, cradling his injured head into their lap, humming long forgotten lullabies and making sure he wouldn't die of dehydration. A couple of times he was forced to drink some cold, bitter concoction that burnt its way to his stomach, but mostly he slept, he slept all the time.

When he finally felt like waking up, he emerged from his slumber slowly, carefully, eyes fluttering open one at a time to avoid being blinded by any possible source of light and to peer at his surroundings with the outmost care. 

Foliage. Thick, green foliage, pierced here and there by the bright rays of the summer sun. Smells, many smells all mixed together, wood and fire and grass and wild animals -- they hit him all at once and Lambert had to shut his nose not to get overwhelmed. His head hurt. Did it always hurt like that? Even though he didn't want to, he allowed a small groan to escape his parted lips.

"Good morning, princess!", he heard, before finding a far too familiar face very close to his.

Aiden's shit eating grin was at once the most beautiful, the most infuriating thing he could have seen while waking up from his concussion-induced nap. He cast him a very, very dirty glance for having always to be so damn loud, but suddenly his stomach clenched painfully and he abruptly rolled on his side, emptying its poor content on the dry grass. His vomit smelled awfully acrid. Though still dazed, he recognized the sharp tang of poppy seeds in that awful stench.

Aiden was quick to help him clean himself up, talking some nonsense while he was at it. 

Lambert had missed his blabbering. He had missed it a lot.

"Here, drink this", the Cat finally said once he had helped Lambert get up to a semi-sitting position, handing him a wooden mug. Lambert ogled at the steaming liquid inside with a concerned look. If that was possibly one of those obscure Cat decoctions Aiden always tried to give him, he wouldn't have even tried a sip. Aiden wasn't exactly good at alchemy; the potions he crafted were shit most of the time, only good to cause some poisoning and a subsequent very bad stomach ache without having any positive effect at all.

"What's this?"

Aiden snorted.

"Herbal tea, silly! Drink it, I promise it won't do any harm."

"Did you...did you make me tea while I was unconscious? That's...nice. Thanks."

"Yeah, well, it was  _ my _ tea but since you're awake...", he said, smiling fondly. If Lambert wasn't sure his breath could kill a male deer from a mile, he would have kissed him right away. He felt merciful enough not to. As the first sip of tea soothed his clenching guts, he was able to put together tiny bits of the events that had led him to pass out in the woods; the nekkers, the concussion, the deserters -- his horse. He tried to ignore the bloodthirstiness clawing at his heart at the thought, his burning need of retaliation. No need to dwell on such thoughts when he wasn't certain yet he could walk straight without fainting like a maiden with her corset laced too tight. 

"I've got a couple of questions", he finally said, massaging his right temple with the tip of his fingers. Didn't soothe the headache, though. He let out a huge, weary sigh.

Aiden plopped down ungracefully next to him, crossing his legs and chewing loudly on a long strip of dried, spicy meat. Lambert's stomach growled, and Aiden fetched some bread for him, stating that his stomach was still too sore to process spicy meat without having him throwing up afterwards. Lambert disagreed vehemently, but he wolfed down his loaf of bread without complaining too much.

"Go on now. Ask away."

Lambert grunted as a particularly painful jolt of pain shot through his head like a bloody arrow. Aiden stroke his back gently, a faint lopsided smile on his lips.

"How long have I been out?"

The Cat made his tongue click. 

"Well, you wouldn't believe this but it's been three days. You didn't sleep all the time, of course, but even when you were complaining or just staring at me you weren't exactly...lucid."

_ Three fucking days. _

Three fucking days had Aiden spent taking care of him. Something inside Lambert's heart stirred and, again, he felt the urge to kiss him, hard, smash his lips against Aiden's and let him know how much it meant for him without being forced to say it out loud. 

"Did you give me poppy milk?"

Aiden shrugged.

"Yeah, for the pain. There was no Swallow on you, nor anything that could be useful in your situation. Your horse was stolen, right?"

Lambert nodded. 

"Deserters. Shit, I hate Velen."

"Was it their doing?", Aiden finally asked, gesturing eloquently towards Lambert's injured head. The Wolf grunted, scratching the cut on his forearm. At least that one was already turning into a long, slender scar.

"No. Just this one", he said, showing him the precise cut bisecting his forearm diagonally. "My head was already messed up when they attacked me."

"Because…"

"Because some nekkers I was hunting deliberately started to throw rocks at me, probably trying to stone me to death. Shit, they're becoming more and more creative, aren't they? Now they copycat trolls. As if they weren't loathsome enough already."

Aiden gave him another sympathetic smile and an affectionate, gentle nudge in the ribs.

"You'll be alright in a couple of days or so, by the way. Did you kill the nekkers already?"

"Of course", Lambert sneered in return, "who do you think I am? Shit, I've got some coin to collect", he suddenly recalled. He tried to stand, then, feeling as clumsy as he was when he had taken his first steps after the Trial of the Grasses, but Aiden held him back with a scolding look.

"Ah-ah, not so fast, you're still too weak. Give yourself a break, let's just rest for another day, all right? Then -- we'll see."

Much to his dismay, Lambert couldn't argue with reason. He collapsed on his arse with a huff. 

"The other question --"

"Please, do ask."

The Wolf shook his head at Aiden's smug grin.

"How did you find me? We were supposed to meet in Lindenvale, and Lindenvale is still quite far from here."

A shadow crossed Aiden's beautiful, unnaturally chiseled face. It didn't last longer than a beat, yet Lambert was able to notice it nonetheless. He furrowed his brows and Aiden shrugged noncommittally.

"Ah, let's say that Lindenvale doesn't exactly welcome witchers of the Cat School. The innkeeper was kind enough to send me away with an explanation, though. He stated that they've had some troubles with a Cat in the past, failed to mention what kind of troubles though. In summary, I had no bed to crash onto after all the time spent riding, so I told myself: 'why not riding a little bit more and surprise Lambert mid-way?'. Then I got back on my horse and hit the road at full gallop, I was really motivated". He huffed a small laugh there. Lambert gave him a questioning brow.

"And?"

"Oh, you know, I entered the forest to camp for a while, I found out you were this close", he said gesturing with his fingers, "only when I picked up the scent of your blood. I panicked, as you can imagine, and I ran to you with my sword in hand, but when I arrived you were already unconscious and whoever had split your skull open was gone. Shit, for how it smells good, I hate to smell your blood."

Lambert shook his head -- well, he pretended to. 

"You're a sentimental fool", he reprimanded, faking indignance. Aiden bumped his shoulder into Lambert's lightly.

"Asshole. Is that how you repay my kindness? I nursed you back to health and you break my heart!", he dramatically recited, a hand theatrically flat on his chest. The Wolf snorted.

"What a drama queen. Shit, I'm mad about the horse -- do you think that those fuckers have a camp nearby? I can recognize a face or two, but I can't rely on my nose, I was too sick to take note of how they smelled when I was fighting", he groaned. He was starting to feel tired, plus his head was pounding again.

Aiden shrugged.

"We'll go back tomorrow, if you're feeling any better. For the moment, I suggest you to sleep a little while more, you're still in a pretty bad shape and your head hasn't healed properly yet. I can give you some more poppy milk if the pain is still bothering you."

"That would be nice, yes. And you have to tell me why the fuck have you stashed so much poppy milk. You planning on selling it to those nobles bored with life who think they're too haughty for fisstech?"

Aiden chuckled, a nice sound that reverberated through Lambert's bones, warming his aching joints. He craved to stretch his legs, yet he knew better not to push himself too much -- more or less.

"For how much I love easy coin, I'd never deal in drugs, I've got my principles you know? Poppy milk is always useful, especially since my alchemy skills are so poor. However, I'll tell you everything another time, you need to lay down for a bit, now.” 

Again, there was no point in arguing with logic. Lambert let Aiden fluff the makeshift pillow behind his back and then gulped down a generous sip of bitter, sticky poppy milk.

He fell asleep almost immediately, with Aiden's fingers carding through his hair as he whispered sweet nothings to his ear.

***

He got up halfway through the afternoon only because he needed, he very much needed to take a piss. Standing was starting to feel less and less uncomfortable, walking didn't feel as hard anymore. He stretched his legs and felt relieved when his joints popped and the ache in his bones subsided immediately. As he was taking a look around the camp, he realized Aiden was gone. He tentatively sniffed the air with a frown; Aiden's tracks - his scent and an almost invisible set of footprints - led to the forest. Lambert yawned and assumed he had gone hunting something for dinner. When they were traveling together, it was usually Lambert who did the hunting and the fishing, for Aiden claimed to find both of the activities  _ "extremely boring". _ A warm, fond smile bloomed on his lips at the thought. He collected some dry branches around the camp and started the fire back as the embers were still glowing: the forest was humid and cold despite the season.

He drifted off watching the hypnotic dance of the flames, wondering what Aiden would have brought back for dinner.

***

He woke up for good at sunset, to the sound of Aiden's voice singing an old song about witches while stirring something into a pot.

The smell was unmistakable: hare. 

Lambert took his time to make sure that his head wasn't still hurting -- it wasn't exactly true, but at least the pain wasn't that excruciating anymore. His pupils were now working: he tried to dilate and contract them for a couple of times before letting out a satisfied grunt and getting up slowly to prevent feeling fuzzy.

Aiden smiled warmly as Lambert took a seat at his side, on the musky log he was comfortably sprawled on while attending to their dinner.

"You're feeling better", he stated, slender fingers lacing with Lambert's more calloused ones, his fingertips brushing gently against the bruised knuckles. Lambert didn't remember punching anyone, but frankly he couldn't give a fuck about a couple of purple bruises on his hands, as long as they didn't bother him while holding his sword.

"Yeah, sort of. How was your hunt?", he asked, gesturing towards the sizzling pot. The smell of well seasoned meat made his mouth water obscenely.

"Boring, as always. Chased a deer for a while, but I had to let him go once the fucker entered a leshen's territory. I didn't want to get impaled for a goddamn deer, you know…"

"Ugh, leshens", Lambert replied with a grimace. One of the worst scars on his mauled back was a parting gift from a particularly bitter leshen he had killed off many years prior, not far from the Lyrian border. A frustrated groan escaped his lips when he suddenly remembered that he had to get his coin from the alderman for the nekkers he had gotten rid of. The groan deepened as he thought about the fact that he didn't have a horse anymore thanks to a ragtag band of deserters. "Fuck, I've got to find a horse. Your Daisy won't be able to carry the two of us for long", he muttered, cursing a couple of times more under his breath. Aiden snorted, amused.

"You'd be surprised about the amazing things that mare can do, believe me. Speaking of horses, turn around you stubborn old goat", he smirked bumping lightly against his shoulder. Lambert furrowed his brows, however he turned his head anyway. Carefully, of course. He was still recovering from a concussion, after all.

Well, if his eyes weren't tricking him - for a split second he thought he was hallucinating because of the poppy milk still in his system - his stolen stallion was now tied tight to the sturdy trunk of an oak tree, grazing at the soft grass next to Daisy, Aiden's mare.

"How -- when -- what the hell?"

Aiden burst out laughing. 

"You should see your face! Well, I had some spare time while you were napping, so I thought to put it to good use. Your deserters weren't hard to track, by the way, they were...sloppy, to say the least. They left a clear trail behind."

"And…?"

"And I retrieved your horse. Not only that, of course, but we'll talk about the rest later. They had plenty of interesting goods at the campsite, stolen jewelry, engraved hatchets -- things we could easily sell once we reach Novigrad or Oxenfurt. Your call, though. I know you hate staying in Novigrad, that the city smells of horseshit and sweat etcetera etcetera. We've had this conversation at least twenty times."

Lambert snorted loudly.

"I'll never understand your fascination with the Free City. What the fuck do you see in that hellhole? By the way, thanks for the horse. I would have done the same, you know?"

"I know."

"What about the diserters? Are they…?"

"Dealt with? Yes. Dead? No. But I'm sure they won't bother anyone anymore, since most of them will eat from a straw for the rest of their miserable life", he explained with a chuckle. Lambert nodded. He would have killed them off for good but Aiden had other methods. He wasn't prone to bloodshed, not since he had severed all the ties that bound him to the School of the Cat.

"Thank you", he repeated, more firmly this time, brushing his fingers against Aiden's firm thigh. 

The Cat laced their fingers together, his thumb gently stroking the small of Lambert's hand.

"What about a proper sign of gratitude? You in for a kiss?"

"What?"

"My my, you must have fucked up your head for good, eh? A kiss, Lambert. You haven't kissed me yet and I think you've healed enough not to faint if you kiss me -- even though my kisses could make anyone faint", he smirked, ogling at him eloquently. Lambert shook his head.  _ Insufferable prick _ . But yeah, he really wanted to smash his lips against Aiden's, take him aback, make him yelp and moan into his mouth -- and something more than that, of course. For the moment, though, he could stick with a kiss. Some kisses. Many kisses. Screw his bad, smelly breath; they were witchers, therefore they were accustomed with far more unpleasant fragrances, such as "wet drowner" and "necrophage nest". He chuckled at the thought before leaning in for a kiss.

Surprisingly enough, things started out slowly, tenderly, almost tentatively. Not even their first kiss had been so tender, when it had happened in a crumbling barn at the foot of the Mahakaman hills. They took their time, kissing and stroking, the hare still cooking in the pot and probably in need of being stirred again soon.

None of them took further care of their dinner, which ended up spectacularly burned a couple of hours later. 

Things heated up pretty quickly between the two witchers, by the way, and soon enough they were lying naked on the soft, wet grass, chilling their bones as they fucked carelessly near the fire. Lambert forgot completely about the throbbing pain in the back of his skull, but regretted it greatly afterwards.

They ate their burned dinner and Lambert was forced to take some more poppy milk as the headache became unbearable again.

Fuck, he had definitely overestimated his stamina. It happened so frequently he had lost count of how many times he had done that, almost ending up killed for his cockiness.

His recklessness - which he blamed on Aiden, of course, and on his handsome face - cost him another day of nausea, pain, and dizziness. In the end, they spent a couple of days more camping in Velen. Still, he had some coin to collect, and on the wake of the third day he was feeling good enough to ride, retrieve as many trophies as he could from the nekkers and deliver them to the alderman to fulfill the contract, be paid and get out of Velen as fast as he could, pointing out to Aiden that he was  _ "starting to reek like a bog himself". _ Aiden giggled loudly at that, spurring his Daisy to keep up with Lambert's stallion. 

By the end of the day, they were entering Oxenfurt, followed by the skittish, mistrustful looks of the guards at the gate.

***

Oxenfurt was definitely warmer than Velen, the relentless sun pounding against the stones and turning the city into a furnace. Yet, Lambert had befriended an innkeeper while helping him to lift a curse, so he had made sure that  _ his monster slayer friend  _ could sleep in the most comfortable room at the inn. The definition implicitly included Aiden too, even though the bed in their rented room could barely fit Lambert alone. 

Not that sleeping in a cramped space was a problem for them.

So, there they were, Lambert comfortably resting his head over Aiden's bare chest, a pile of contracts on the small table near the window, and two big mugs of ale waiting to be emptied while playing Gwent till late night.

Undoubtedly, a witcher's life was hard and depressingly lacking in good things: enjoying the small moments of peace during the season was a luxury Lambert could have never imagined possible before meeting Aiden.

_ Yet _ .

He sighed contentedly as Aiden ran his fingers carefully through his freshly washed hair. He felt his fingertips search for the scarring wound at the base of his skull, probing gently. Aside from occasional short-lived headaches, Lambert was back to his usual self.

"How's your head?", he heard Aiden whisper, his smooth voice echoing through his chest, barely overwhelming the loud thumping of his heart against Lambert's ear. The Wolf placed a gentle kiss on his sweaty skin and shrugged.

Who would have ever thought that he would have done something _ gently _ one day?

"It's good. Doesn't hurt anymore."

"You sure?"

"Of course."

Aiden hummed in response, his hand traveling down Lambert's back, rubbing soothing circles in his tense shoulders. A companionable silence fell between them. Lambert thought that he could have fallen asleep right away, like that.

"You gave me quite a scare, you know?", he spoke again after the long pause. Lambert frowned.

"Me? Why? It wasn't my first injury since we've started traveling together."

Aiden inhaled sharply, then exhaled with a sigh.

"I know. But this time I really thought you were...doomed. I mean, there was nothing I could do for you as you laid there delirious, half dead. I felt...useless. Powerless. Not exactly a nice feeling."

"Ah, bullshit. I wasn't doomed. And you yourself had your fair share of almost fatal wounds, do I have to remind you about that Alp in Vizima? Or maybe that time you almost had your heart ripped out from a nightwraith. That was something fucking sick, believe me. Not some minor bump in the head."

“I wouldn’t say that the injury you sustained was  _ minor _ , but hey, we’re not arguing about semantics. The point is -- I mean, I like you, Lambert. Hell, I do like you a lot. And I don’t want to --”

Aiden’s pulse fluttered. If he could have been able to, Lambert was sure he would have blushed. Hard. He swallowed the lump in his throat and muttered a faint “Yeah, me neither” while unconsciously tightening his arms around the Cat’s slender waist.

“All right. Just be -- be careful next time. Please.”

Lambert gave him a court nod.

“You too. Now”, he said, clearly unaccustomed to such a level of intimacy, as he rose back to a decent sitting position, “what about that game of Gwent? We can make it strip Gwent”, he hinted, his hand casually resting on Aiden’s knee. Not that they had many clothes to get rid of during the game, given the heat, but strip Gwent was always a good option to lead to a nice fuck.

Aiden shook his head.

“You’re awful, you know?”, he playfully teased. Then, with a smug smile, he said “Of course. Nilfgaard versus Monsters?”

Lambert sneered.

“Deal. Get ready to lose your knickers, asshole. The Monster Deck is mine.”

  
  
  


  
  



End file.
